I could do this. I’d make small talk for half an hour or so, then leave. Over the years I’d perfected my ability to chat without revealing anything, and that was my intention. Feeling guilty for some reason I couldn’t place my finger on, I sat on the old flowered sofa, and she perched next to me. Deborah brought in a cake on a platter, and Nettie’s eyes lit up.
“Ah, there it is. My secret weapon.”
The dark-brown cake with the crumbly, buttery top sat in all its glory on a plain, unadorned plate. It didn’t need globs of icing or expensive imported ingredients to make it special. “Babka?”
“Not just anybabka. You remember Stern’s bakery down the block?”
So well that I could almost still taste the rich chocolate melting in my mouth. Proust wrote inRemembrance of Things Pastabout how taste can trigger memory. Well, Proust could have his little cookie dipped in tea. I had Stern’s chocolatebabkato send me back in time. I could name so many magical moments in my life that started out with a slice of this cake on a Sunday evening.
“I do, yes. And you’re right. Their cakes and cookies are legendary.”
“Good. So you still have a head on your shoulders for some things. As for the other…eat first, and then we’ll talk.”
A tight knot formed in my chest, but I forced a smile. “I shouldn’t be here. Monroe and I had a terrible fight, and I think this time seeing each other will be our last.”
“What happened?”
The words we’d flung at each other seemed so childish now, it embarrassed me to repeat them. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
The coffee forgotten, Deborah took the chair across from Nettie and me. “Are you sure? It might make you feel better if you talked to someone.”
“In this instance, I doubt it.”
“Why?” Nettie offered me a slice of cake, and automatically I took it from her slightly shaky hand. “You obviously still care about him.”
I didn’t want to lie, so I remained silent.
Nettie sighed. “You’re as frustrating as my grandson and just as stubborn.”
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve been called.” Everything aside, I did enjoy talking to Nettie and Deborah. “If I told you, I’d like your promise that you won’t tell Monroe we spoke. I wouldn’t want him to think I was using his family.”
“We promise, right?” Nettie nodded to Deborah. “Unburden yourself. It will make you feel better.”
“We’d never break a confidence,” Deborah added.
I gave them an abridged version of what occurred earlier and watched the puzzled expressions on their faces.
“But Monroe did try to keep in touch,” Nettie said. “He used to tell us about your letters in the beginning, and when you stopped writing, he would mope around the house and ask us why we thought you stopped writing him. After a year or so, he made the decision to forget about you because you’d obviously forgotten him.”
The voices of the past crowded out the present. Our first kiss, when we realized we’d both hidden how we felt about each other. Roe and I lying on his grandmother’s bed, watching television, our bare feet touching. A smile would slide across his face, and after checking that the door was shut, we’d kiss, tentatively at first; then, with hearts pounding, we’d press our mouths together stronger, tongues pushing deep, licking…
“I never forgot Roe. But I swear I never heard from him. He stopped writing me.”
“That’s not true.” Nettie’s voice rose. “I know he wrote you often. He even called you once, but he didn’t get to speak to you.”
Trepidation ran chills through my veins. “Did he say if he talked to anyone?” My heart pounded, nerves jangling with fear.
Deborah’s sympathetic eyes met mine. “He refused to talk about it and never mentioned you again.” A wan smile touched her lips for a moment. “But I know he still has feelings for you.”
“Yes, hate. That’s a pretty strong feeling.” My mind reeled. Was it possible Roe was telling the truth? Did my mother do that to me? Nausea bubbled in my stomach.
“When it comes to love, the two emotions can often become entangled.” A coughing fit overcame Nettie, and I took her hand while Deborah rushed to the kitchen to get her a glass of water. Nettie clutched my hand. “Love each other.” Her head lolled to the side, and she collapsed against the cushions.
Shit.“Deborah,” I yelled. “Call 9-1-1. Something’s happened.”
“Oh, my God. She’s having another heart attack,” she cried out, the glass of water she was holding crashing to the floor.
Knowing there was precious little time to waste, I took out my phone and hit the emergency key. It connected immediately, and as I gave the information to the dispatcher, Deborah kneeled by Nettie, stroking her white cheek. Nettie, I saw with relief, still breathed, although her respiration stuttered and hitched.
